As You Were (Rising Star Book 2)

by Lee Piper

  “Hi,” I murmur, filling my lungs to capacity with his aroma, needing this man inside me somehow.

  “You look….” Wrapping his fist in my hair, he tugs. “Fuck. You could bring a grown man to his knees.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Are you offering?”

  “Are you asking?”

  Tracing my fingers across his smooth jawline, I shake my head. “No, I’m not asking.”

  His gaze lingers on my parted lips. “Good. We need to get out of here. Gonna fuck you right here otherwise.”

  “I’m not complaining.” I grin.

  “You will when I rip this cocktease of a dress from here”—the deft fingers of his free hand skim my exposed cleavage, tracing a line over the delicate lace all the way down my stomach—“to here.” He cups my pussy through the fabric.

  I gasp, a rush of warmth flooding my center. Gripping his forearm, I whisper, “As much as I want to see you lose control, I really love this dress.”

  Releasing my hair from his tight grip, he cups the back of my neck instead. “Then let’s go.”

  It takes a few steps to get my legs working properly, and I stumble a few times on the way to the garage. So I’m thankful when Zeke helps me into his car, and we drive to Bayview.

  To be honest, it’s not where I thought we’d be heading. After all, if anyone wants to spot a celebrity, this is the place to do it. The beachside town is crawling with actors, models, and musicians, not to mention photographers intent on capturing their every move. However, before I get a chance to voice my concerns, we turn off the main street into a side alley. Again, not what I expected.

  Zeke reverse parallel parks the car in a reserved spot nestled between two very expensive vehicles. It’s strange because I wouldn’t have thought people would risk leaving their cars in a place like this. Surely they’ll be stripped or long gone by the time the owners return?

  Unperturbed, Zeke silences the engine, gets out of the car, and rounds the hood. He opens my door and offers me his hand. Smiling, I take it.

  Without a word, he leads me along the cracked pavement until we reach a heritage building sandwiched between a warehouse and what I’m guessing is a gym. The structure in front of us is three stories high, narrow, and with curtained windows on either side of a heavy red door. Soft light emanates from inside, a stark contrast to the lifeless buildings on either side. Tinkling glass and the chatter of voices waft through the alley, along with the delicious scent of garlic and oregano. I inhale, ravenous.

  Zeke pauses a moment, his free hand hovering over the iron doorknob. His eyes flick to mine, cautious. Sensing he needs reassurance, I rise onto the balls of my feet and press a gentle kiss to his cheek before shifting back and offering a small smile. His gaze heats. Then an emotion I’ve never before seen crosses his face before he looks away. He opens the door and leads us through.

  I don’t have time to question what just happened, why he hesitated, and what his expression meant, because the moment we step inside a short man with wiry gray hair and matching moustache bustles toward us. With arms outstretched, he cries, “Zeke, ragazzo mio.”

  The Italian rolls off his tongue like a fine wine. “È così bello a vederti ancora! Mamma sarà così felice quando le dico che sei qui.”

  “Ciao, Papà.”

  My jaw drops. Papà?

  As in, dad?

  As in, what the actual heck?

  A shiver rolls through me, causing sparks of heat to rocket to my core. With my gaze fixed firmly on Zeke, I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ease the dull throb. A broody Zeke is hot. A filthy Zeke is hotter. But a Zeke who is can speak one of the sexiest languages on the planet?

  Dead.

  After a firm clap on Zeke’s shoulder, the old man turns to me, his brown eyes alight with humor. “E chi abbiamo qui?” He raises an eyebrow at Zeke, while I look between them, equal parts confused and turned on. “Tu non porti mai donne al ristorante. Questa deve essere speciale.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Zeke is blushing. “Papà, this is Willow.” He faces me, his eyes softening. “Wil, this is my father, Vincenzo Marchetti. He owns this restaurant.”

  Thankfully, I’m spared from the embarrassment of having to respond because Vincenzo wraps me in a warm hug. “Willow.” He grins and holds me at arm’s length. “Welcome to Marchetti’s. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He nudges Zeke with his elbow. “I like this one.” He lets out a low whistle. “Your mother will be very happy too.”

  Zeke scratches the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed.

  I busy myself trying to find a resemblance, a genetic link that connects the two men. But there’s nothing. Not a single thing. Where one is tall, the other is short. Where one is broad, the other is compact. Where one is coolly restrained, the other oozes warmth. I’m so confused.

  Vincenzo gestures to the packed restaurant. “Come in, come in. Your table is ready and waiting. We always leave it free. Follow me.” With quick steps, he zigzags through the chattering patrons until we reach a secluded table in the far corner. It’s surprisingly quiet in this part of the room, and with the flickering tea light candle inside a mason jar lending a soft glow to the linen tablecloth and sparkling silver cutlery, the setting could almost be considered romantic.

  Zeke. Romantic.

  Yep, still confused.

  Vincenzo pulls out a chair, and Zeke waits for me to sit before following suit. A napkin is placed on my lap, the wine list is settled before me, and Zeke’s father promises to return with the menu. He claps Zeke on the shoulder, gives me a mischievous wink, and hustles to the bar.

  I stare at the man sitting across from me. The man who continuously surprises me with every new layer peeled back. Who is he? How did I not know about his family, his Italian heritage?

  If Zeke notices my staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he’s focused solely on the wine menu, his eyes perusing the many options. I wait him out.

  “Do you want red or white?” he asks.

  I cross my arms.

  His eyes meet mine. I raise an eyebrow, hoping my you’re-going-to-tell-me-every-last-detail expression is as strong as my need for answers. Zeke’s features, however, are purposefully blank. “What?”

  “What?” I repeat, stunned he’s contemplating wine choices when moments before he introduced me to his freaking father. “That,” I point over my shoulder in the general vicinity of Vincenzo, “is your dad.”

  Zeke lowers the menu. “So?”

  “So?” I repeat, answering his question with yet another question and annoying myself in the process. “I didn’t even know you had a dad.”

  “Now you do.”

  “For the love of Persephone,” I whisper-shriek. My hands flail like a baby bird learning how to fly. They do little to communicate my irritation. In fact, they do little except piss me off, so I stop. “A heads-up would have been nice. Heck, even an I want to introduce you to someone, oh, and by the way, I’m bilingual would have worked. Anything but what you did back there. You threw me in front of a Mack truck, for Fortuna’s sake. I literally lost the power of speech, and that’s saying something because around you, I always have something to say.”

  Needing to calm down before I hyperventilate and pass out, no doubt landing face-first in my cutlery, I inhale a deep breath, hold it, and then release. My heart rate, previously teetering at an all-time high, calms somewhat. “Look.” I try to keep my voice level. “Family is a big deal for me, okay? And I’m not just talking about blood relations because everyone knows my own father was a class-A douche.” Zeke’s jaw tenses. “But I want to make a good first impression on people who are important to you, and I can’t do that if I don’t know I’m about to meet them.”

  “Trust me, you made a good first impression.”

  “I did nothing but gape at the guy,” I huff. “My mouth was open wide enough for him to give me an oral exam.” Shaking my head, I mutter, “It was the Italian that did it. Trust you to be fluent in a langu
age that oozes sex. Hearing you say ‘Ciao, Papà’ was a death wish to my ovaries.” Scowling, I face the window. “I should be writing a eulogy right now.”

  Staring outside is pointless since it’s pitch-black and nothing but my reflection glares back at me. Agitated confusion isn’t an expression I’m used to, so I turn away, staring at my lap instead.

  “Eyes on me.”

  “No.”

  “Willow,” Zeke warns.

  “No,” I mumble into clenched hands. “I’m not trying to make a big deal out of this, but the whole situation makes it really freaking obvious I barely know you.” Shaking my head, I murmur, “It’s a depressing thought.”

  A low sigh sounds, and seconds later I hear the screech of chair legs on polished wood. Zeke moves his seat until it’s directly next to mine. His thigh, muscular beneath his dress pants, rests mere millimeters from my pale one. A thumb and forefinger tilt my chin upward and to the side until our eyes meet.

  Honey and jade.

  Spark and flame.

  I’m so lost to this man.

  “What do you want to know?” his voice is low, the rumbly bass to my high E.

  “Everything,” I breathe, drinking in the sight of him. “I want to know everything about you.”

  Zeke’s gaze is warm, his caramel irises soft and clear. Yet they flicker between mine, uncertain. He goes to speak, then catches himself. With a growl, he lets go of me and turns, facing the table. Long fingers brace against the white linen, the tan of his skin prominent in the dim light. It’s like he’s using the stability of the smooth surface to center himself. To draw courage.

  “I don’t know my biological parents,” he grumbles. “They’re either dead or want nothing to do with me. Either way the end result is the same. From the time I could walk, no one wanted me. Plenty wanted the paycheck I came with, but never me.” He shrugs. “Can’t say I blame them. I didn’t speak except to argue and didn’t touch except to fight.” He gives a dark laugh. “Who’d want a kid like that, huh?”

  Zeke’s declaration shocks me to silence. He was adopted? Trying to form a connection between one of the most enigmatic men I know and a little boy who was cast from family to family is like staring at the sun. Impossible. Yet I know I need to do something, I need to somehow take away the pain, but for the life of me, I have no idea what to do. My mind is slow-moving fog. So all I do is stare.

  “Fighting was all I knew,” he continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “It protected me when I needed it most. Being dragged from foster home to foster home made sure of that.”

  As Zeke’s words fall, one teardrop at a time, my heart aches. Needing to bridge the distance between us, I shift closer and wrap my arms around his bicep. After leaning my cheek against his shoulder, I whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Can’t change the past, and you sure as shit can’t change the system. Doesn’t matter anyway because when I turned nine, Vincenzo and his wife, Gina, took me in.” He shakes his head. “No idea why, but Dad, Vincenzo, said he saw something in me. A scintilla di luce or spark of light, as he used to say.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “He is,” Zeke agrees.

  “Did he teach you how to mix, to create music? Is that the spark he saw in you?”

  “Nah, that was… that was all me. Dunno what started it. But it was like I had to listen to music, you know? It was the only constant I had. Whenever I got the chance; in Dad’s car on the way to school, or at home when I was meant to be studying, I’d turn that shit up loud. I’d slow each track and pick out the unique parts so I could figure out how they worked. Once I got my head around the layering of sounds, I saved up enough money and bought a shitty mixing console real cheap. Decided to try my hand at it.” He shifts in his seat. “Didn’t always work, but I got better over time.”

  “And now look at you.” I smile. “You’re the best in the business.”

  “One of the best.” His eyes meet mine briefly before falling away again. Even in the dim light, I can see him blushing. “There are producers out there better than me. Not many,” he gives a small, cocky grin, “but some. I’m just glad I get to wake up each day and do something I love. Reckon I’m pretty fucking privileged, all things considered.” He gestures to the restaurant. “It also means I can help my parents out because money isn’t an issue.”

  “What do you mean? Do you work here sometimes?”

  “No.” Facing me, he runs dexterous fingers through my hair, the sensation causing tingles to erupt on my skin. “I bought it for them.”

  “Wait.” My eyes grow large. “You bought your parents a restaurant?”

  “And house. And cars. And anything else they’ll let me buy.” He winds some hair around his fist before giving a gentle tug. I bite back a moan. “They don’t like it, but being able to provide for them is important to me.”

  “Wow.” My mouth opens and closes a few times. “I don’t know what to say except that’s… very generous of you.”

  With his eyes on mine, he murmurs, “I take care of what’s mine.”

  We stare at each other for the longest time. The tinkle of silver cutlery and the hum of gentle chatter form the backing track to our heavy silence. The more I gaze at Zeke, the more I see the man beneath the reserved and aloof exterior. He’s generous in his affection, loyal to a fault, and once his trust is earned, it’s binding. It’s clear now, Zeke holds the values I treasure above all others. He’s the kind of man I could fall in love with.

  The realization makes me gasp.

  “What is it?” A large hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing sensitive skin.

  But I don’t respond. I can’t tell someone who’s determined to keep his heart untouched that there’s the very real chance I’m falling in love with him. Besides, Zeke’s still hurting from his marriage, he’s my boss, I’ve only known him a short time, and soon enough we’re going to be separated when I go on tour.

  We’re doomed.

  Needing a distraction from my convoluted thoughts, I lick dry lips before uttering a broken whisper. “Tell me more about your parents.”

  Zeke’s gaze sweeps my face, his fingers tightening their hold. He knows I’m not telling him the entire truth, but there must be something in my expression that begs him not to ask again because he lets go of me and nods once before saying, “Dad knew about the fights I got into as a kid. He got sick of the blood I’d leave in the bathroom, so he taught me how to box.” A wry grin forms on his face. “He said a real man fights with his head, not his fists.” His fingers flex on the table, the scars on the backs of his hands a spiderweb of hidden stories. “Said if I didn’t watch out, I’d get myself killed because I jumped into confrontation without thinking.” He smirks. “I was a hothead, apparently.”

  I snort, thankful his story diverts my attention. Zeke clasps my knee and squeezes, the calluses on his fingertips coarse against my skin. “Over the years, Dad taught me to slow down, to assess, to think smart. He taught me everything I know.”

  “Is that why you go to the downstairs gym every morning? To box?”

  “Helps with the anger,” he admits.

  I’m silent for a moment, thinking about Zeke as a little boy. He must have been so scared, so alone. It’s no wonder he doesn’t trust easily when his previous foster families, the people who were meant to care for a vulnerable child, did it for the wrong reasons. And then Selena used his love against him, wanting what he could give her rather than offering him her heart. Some people are jerks. It makes me so thankful for the likes of Vincenzo and Gina.

  “Tell me about your mother,” I murmur.

  Footsteps approach from behind us, the rhythmic tread purposeful in its haste. “She’s….” Zeke glances over his shoulder, humor lighting his caramel irises. “She’s something else. Ready?”

  “Ready? For what?”

  “Zeke, mio bambino!”

  “To meet my mother.”

  Zeke stands, then helps me to my feet. I str
aighten the front of my dress, making sure it’s at an I’m-about-to-meet-his-mother appropriate length and not bunched somewhere around my ass. The soft fabric pools to midthigh, and though not conservative, it’s as modest as it’s going to get.

  Gina Marchetti reaches up to her full height. At five-foot-fiveish, it’s not a great stature, but she somehow manages to clasp his face in her hands and pull him toward her. Planting loud kisses on each cheek, she murmurs, “Mio bambino,” over and over again with each smack of her lips.

  To his credit, Zeke lets her, and after the second round of kisses, straightens again. Gesturing to me, he rumbles, “Ma, I want you to meet someone. This is Willow.”

  Chocolate eyes pin me with a direct stare. Whoa. This woman is shrewd, no doubt about it. There’s a quickness and clarity in her expression that screams intelligence and razor-sharp perception.

  Since I’ve got no ulterior motives, I reach out my hand and give a genuine smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Marchetti.”

  She is silent.

  “Ma.” Zeke nudges her with his elbow, prompting her to reciprocate. Because of the height difference, he ends up tapping her on the shoulder.

  Silence.

  Instead of taking my hand, Gina stares at me. Her head quirks to the side, and the tip of her tongue peeks from the corner of her mouth. She starts with my painted toenails and works her way up my legs, dress, neck, and hair. Finally, her gaze roams my face, coming to rest on the freckles peppering the bridge of my nose. It’s unnerving.

  The inspection is thorough, and I’m guessing she’s determining whether I’m good enough for her son. However, judging by the furrow of her brow, I’m not sure I live up to her expectations. I usually don’t care what other people think, but Zeke’s opinion means everything to me, so I’m desperate for his mom’s approval.

  After what feels like an eternity, Gina clucks her tongue and gives a sharp nod. She turns to her son. “I like her.”

  I exhale a ragged breath. Zeke faces me, his expression full of an emotion I can’t name. “Me too.”

  If he keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to need to sit down.